


child you are a bone

by zeldalookslonely



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Depression, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 14:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldalookslonely/pseuds/zeldalookslonely
Summary: Crowley can't sleep.





	child you are a bone

It was easier to avoid Aziraphale before almost-Armageddon, when he wasn’t in the habit of ‘popping by’ Crowley’s flat without any warning. As it stands, Aziraphale doesn’t bother with anything so formal as a knock, let alone a call ahead.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale says, eyebrows raised, “have you bothered to move since I left you here last?”

It’s the first time he realizes that he hasn’t. “Been tired,” Crowley says, instead of answering.

Aziraphale cocks his head to one side, and hovers awkwardly before settling on the sofa, tight against the arm. He holds himself rigidly upright, as far away from Crowley as he can possibly be while sharing one piece of furniture. Fingers tapping his knee. Nervous. Radiant.

Crowley knows he should say something, put Aziraphale at ease, but he has no words; his silver tongue has fled, gone from his head, and it’s all he can do to maintain eye contact.

“I’ve given up miracles,” he blurts out finally, just as Aziraphale says, with obviously false cheer, “Let’s take a trip!”

“What,” Crowley says.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, “I see. Is that why you look-?” he pauses, then shimmies closer. Puts a hand in Crowley’s hair as if _touching _Crowley is something he _does_.

Crowley clears his throat. “Look how?”

“I suppose you’ll have to bathe the human way. Have you ever tried it? It’s spectacular! Relaxing and soothing and-”

“I’ve tried it. Of course I have. It’s fine.”

“Oh, I could run you a nice bath right now! I have-”

“No,” Crowley says sharply. “No. I’m fine.”

“Right, of course.” Aziraphale withdraws his hand, stands. Paces the four steps in front of the sofa, back and forth, back and forth. Takes a deep breath. Stares at his hands. “I’ve been thinking things over, since… everything. Thinking about the freedom we have now, and what’s important. I thought it might be nice to take a little holiday. Together. So. Would you like to take a trip? With me? Anywhere you want to go.”

It’s like the heartiest morsel dangled before a starving but paralyzed man. Crowley thinks: _yes but it’s a bad time, yes but I need to sleep this through, yes but I don’t know if I could bear it, yes but I can’t._

“No,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale is silent for a moment and still, before bursting into a flurry of hands and wide, beseeching eyes. “Quite right! No obligation, of course! I didn’t expect you’d want -- I do think I’ll head back to the bookshop though, my -- that is, goodbye.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, but Aziraphale has disappeared in a snap; gone, gone, gone.

…

Sometimes it happens like this: senses fade; a fog rolls in over his brain; he’s slow to thought and slower to speech. Can’t convince himself to stand up, can’t remember why he’d ever want to. It’s a squirming emptiness he aches to drink away, but he’s existed too long for that: knows the alcohol won’t burn him clean. Knows it only engulfs him in gaping, hopeless flames.

He pours the whiskey anyway.

…

“Fuck,” Crowley says aloud, to no one, to nothing. Eighteen days and thirteen hours and forty-three seconds since Aziraphale disappeared from his apartment. One minute and four seconds since Aziraphale’s last voicemail. Thirty-three days and three hours since he’s slept. “Fuck. FUCK.” He grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes. Stars burst. Constellations. A fucking symphony of fucking light. He laughs; it hurts. Flares down his scratched throat, settles in his churning belly like glass. There’s star stuff in the rear view, but don’t bother running; it follows. It follows, doesn’t it?

“Fuck.”

…

It’s insulting, it’s _wrong_. Experiencing time like this: living through every second as it passes. Like some kind of mortal. Like humanity, careening knowingly toward their own destruction. 

He vomits tequila and bile and ponders because __insulting __is nothing but _wrong _has heft to it: there’s weight there. _Wrong _is something he can sink his teeth into, if he can get close enough. But he can only see from a distance and he doesn’t have any bite left, does he?

…

Last time he slept for eight years and woke up with the ability to act normal. He caught up on paperwork and took Aziraphale to breakfast. There had been bacon and harsh, creased lines between Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley had watched as Aziraphale had watched him. He watched Aziraphale open his mouth. Close it. Decide not to ask. Put the whole thing from his mind. Smile blandly, sip tea.

Aziraphale has always been so good at compartmentalizing. Probably a trait he had to develop out of self-defense, considering the Archangel _Fucking _Gabriel was the closest thing he had to family.

Once, Crowley watched mothers drown, holding their babies high, holding their babies above the floodwater, appealing to a merciless Noah. Once, Crowley’s own Mother watched him fall, down, down, down. Watched him drown. 

…

The thing is, eventually Aziraphale will stop calling. Stop knocking at his door. Stop trying. And it would be a relief, wouldn’t it? To just. Let go. To be as alone as he really is, deep down. To let go of this persistent illusion of some kind of reciprocal intimacy. It’s been so long. It’s been forever.

He clenches his eyes closed. Digs jagged fingernails into the palm of his hand. Dials Aziraphale.

…

He answers on the first ring. _Fuck_. _Fuck_.

“Dear boy,” he says gently.

“Aziraphale,” he croaks out. Clears his throat.

“Are you…? I’m… I’m so glad to hear from you, Crowley.”

It’s like trying to talk, _think_, through a thick layer of glue. “Should’ve been in touch.”

“I thought… Well. No matter. Are you very busy? Maybe I could tempt you into a late night snack? You could tell me about… anything. Anyone. We could go to--”

“I can’t _sleep_,” Crowley says. Gritted teeth. Blood running from his palm. Desperation like a leaky faucet. Pathetic, of course, but there’s nothing for it.

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment. Crowley can picture him: in his armchair, book on one knee, snack to the side. Fresh and ironed. Dusty-soft. Frowning. Lovely.

“I’d like to come over,” Aziraphale says. “Are you… is that okay with you? Can I come over now?”

The state of his flat is starting to seep into his awareness. Empty bottles. Mold. Blood and vomit. Worse, the state of himself. That scent of decay and growth.

“Give me an hour,” Crowley says. He’ll straighten up. Shower.

…

He doesn’t straighten up or shower. Doesn’t even brush his teeth, doesn’t make it to the bathroom. Bargains with himself and loses. Isn’t even waiting. Just sitting. Sitting.

…

Aziraphale looks stricken when Crowley answers the door, something like warring devastation and relief, but his face is blank by the time he’s through the flat.

“It’s not the best time,” Crowley says, but the words only act as an accelerant to the shame coiling up his spine, so cold he’s burning. He laughs, feels hysterical. Rubs his temples. “Aziraphale,” he says.

“My dear. Will you sit with me?”

“’Course,” Crowley says. They sit unnaturally still in strained silence til Aziraphale makes a noise that could be a sob and wraps his arms around Crowley. A hug.

Crowley chokes, horrifying tears are welling up at the touch; he’s relieved and repulsed; he’s being offered things he’s always wanted and can’t stop rejecting them. His skin crawls. He leans away, extricates himself from Aziraphale’s grip. Puts a little distance between them.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley says nothing. Shrugs.

“I shouldn’t have left so abruptly, last time I was here,” Aziraphale says, “I wanted to pop in a hundred times since then.”

“Surprised you didn’t. Never known you to stand so much on ceremony.”

Aziraphale examines a small rent in the sofa. “I didn’t want to intrude. Do you --? I wondered if you might--?”

“Might what?”

“Might have someone.” His head jerks up, making eye contact, wet eyes to wet eyes. “Do you have someone? Maybe a mortal?”

“What do you mean? A mortal?”

“A lover, Crowley! A lover. A partner.”

Crowley shuts his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Raises one hand in the air, lets it drop. “I don’t understand. How could you possibly think that? What about me right now could possibly lead you to believe I have anyone in my life?”

“You were sad!” Aziraphale says, defensive. “You were sad and you said you gave up miracles. I thought somebody must be getting suspicious, and you were trying to get them back. And, and. You didn’t want to--”

“What a fascinating romance you’ve made up for me in your head,” Crowley says, knows he sounds sharp. Hurt. “Must have made you happy, me and my star-crossed human lover. Just like one of your books.”

Aziraphale stands abruptly. “I wasn’t happy at all, actually. Is that how you’d feel? Would you be happy? If it were me with a lover, would you be happy?

_If that’s what you want_, Crowley should say. _If that’s what you want, I’d be happy for you_.

“No,” Crowley says. “No.”

Aziraphale is looking down at him, _soft_, and it’s all too much. He’s drowning, he’s under water, he’s floating, he’s nowhere. “I don’t want to talk right now. You can leave or you can stay, but I’m done talking.”

“You’re not alone,” Aziraphale says. “You do have someone in your life. I’m on your side.”

“Sit and be quiet or leave!”

Aziraphale sits. Is quiet. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t leave.

…

_I wasn’t happy at all, actually_. 

Aziraphale in Crowley’s home, making some kind of vague admission of -- what? Jealousy? Fondness? Mere disappointment? Regardless, admissions were made, and Aziraphale didn’t hurry away, didn’t bluster, didn’t walk it back. Didn’t give that familiar twist of lip that indicated quick pleasure dissolving into lasting horror.

Aziraphale is still here. He’s still here in Crowley’s garbage-pile of a flat with a retired (unemployed) demon who can’t bring himself to leave the house, can’t bring himself to brush his teeth, can’t _sleep_.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” Crowley says. The first words spoken in hours.

Aziraphale starts. Blinks. He looks Crowley up and down, inches his fingers toward Crowley’s hand. Presses his thumb to Crowley’s wrist, his pulse. “May I brush your hair?”

“My hair?” Crowley raises his other hand to the side of his head, discovers his hair is matted tight to his scalp. He can’t even brush his fingers through without yanking at impenetrable knots. _Shit_. The shame is spiraling again, the idea that he’s letting Aziraphale see him like this, out of control; the idea that Aziraphale is seeing so much more clearly than Crowley is, but he’s still here. “I don’t… you don’t have to do that.”

“I know. May I?”

He could kick Aziraphale out. Evict him from the flat, from this excruciating moment. He could burrow back down, under his covers, beg God or Satan or anyone for sleep, for rest. He could be alone.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, if you want.”

…

Aziraphale is achingly gentle. He finds a series of combs and brushes in Crowley’s rarely used bathroom, rotates between them to carefully pick at mats and tangles, bottom to top. He strokes his hand down Crowley’s arm when he gasps at the sharp pinpricks of pain, soothing. The worst of it is right against his scalp, above his ears. Where he rests his head on the bed, he supposes. That’s where Aziraphale starts talking.

“You must not be used to this, I think. Before you could just,” he waves his hand, snaps, “it fixed. I can’t imagine how hard it must be. I’ve been thinking about it: giving up miracles. I really can’t get it out of my head, since you mentioned it. Is it ethical to keep using them? To keep to my own angelic code, outside of heaven’s parameters? Am I still an angel? Is an angel something that I am, or a job description?” He yanks, hard but quick, at a particularly stubborn knot and then soothes over the spot with his fingers when Crowley gasps. “I’m sorry, dear.”

“You don’t have to give up anything you don’t want to, Angel. Your own angelic code is probably more moral than heaven’s.” _Shut your stupid mouth and die already._

“How did you decide?”

Crowley considers. Doesn’t know if he can explain. “I’m done with it. Miracles. Being tracked. I’m done.”

“Gone native,” says Aziraphale, smiling. “All done.”

Crowley touches his hair, his still stinging scalp. He’s surprised he didn’t have to chop the hair off, cut quick to the root. “Yeah,” he says. “Gone native.”

…

“You’ll feel better if you bathe,” Aziraphale says.

“I know,” Crowley says. “I’m so tired. Angel. I can’t sleep. I can’t _sleep_.”

“Will you -- just this once, will you let me run you a bath? Maybe it will be easier if I start it for you. Do it for me. Just this once, my dear, and then we can worry about resting.”

Crowley never has any idea what to do in the face of _do it for me_ from Aziraphale but the obvious, so he says, “Shower. I’ll shower.”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale says, as pleased as if Crowley had set some sort of feast before him. “I’ll just go start that up!”

Aziraphale has obviously never operated a shower like Crowley’s before, because he’s in the bathroom for over fifteen minutes before he returns, looking very damp.

“_My dear_,” he says, a clear rebuke, and Crowley can’t help but smile, a rickety thing. But genuine.

…

The warm water _burns_, feels like poison, like acid; he’s raw; he’s an open wound. He stands perfectly still under the sharp spray until his body adjusts to the pain, then scrubs himself down twice, once gently and once harsh because he knows it doesn’t really matter: his skin will be itchy and sensitive no matter how carefully he approaches cleaning himself. 

He considers getting out of the shower before washing his hair; that is, without question, what he would have done had Aziraphale not combed it out for him. But Aziraphale _had _combed it out for him. He should wash it. But he _doesn’t want to_, is so averse to the idea his stomach clenches.

He says aloud, “I’m not stupid. This is irrational.” But his self-awareness on matters like these has never helped him much, and saying the truth out loud does nothing to change how he feels.

_I’ll just do it_, he thinks, doesn’t move. Doesn’t move for a long time. Lets the water beat harsh upon his skinny body. Counts the drops of overspray on the glass door. Recites the lyrics to every song from _Berlin _in his head.

“Fuck,” he says. Pours a dollop of shampoo in his hand. _Wash for ten seconds_. Ten seconds, then rinse. Then he can get out of the fucking shower: however clean his hair is after ten seconds is how clean it’ll get.

He shampoos for longer than ten seconds. Gives up counting. _Fuck_. Why does he have to make everything so difficult? Fuck.

It’s freezing, worse than usual, by the time he’s wrapped in a towel, standing in front of his steam-covered mirror. He puts the same clothes back on because he knows they’re probably cleaner than anything else he has, immediately feels grimy again.

He feels like he’s sinking again. Feels like he’s sunk.

…

Aziraphale is sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for him, and all of a sudden everything is so surreal; the world looks like a bad oil painting of itself; nothing makes sense.

“Are you really here?” Crowley asks, and immediately feels foolish.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale says soothingly, “I’m here.”

Crowley slumps against him; he puts an arm around Crowley’s shoulder, presses a kiss to the top of his head, then his forehead.

Crowley shuts his eyes. Can’t bear it. “You don’t do that, angel.” He knows he sounds so tired. Knows he should let it go unremarked upon; can’t. “You don’t kiss. Well, you don’t-- you don’t kiss _me_.” 

“I’ve never kissed _anyone _without wishing it was you. _Never_. You must know that.”

In one swift movement, Crowley flips around and hauls Aziraphale further onto his bed. Straddles his hips. Pins him by the wrists. “I don’t want _pity _from you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, never flinches; he relaxes absolutely, if he was holding any tension, it’s gone. “I don’t pity you, darling,” he says. “I could never.” Crowley expects him to pull his hands free, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t move. Stares up at Crowley as if perfectly at ease, eyes wide and sincere.

Crowley slides his hands forward; when they’re palm to palm Aziraphale entwines their fingers and squeezes, gently. Crowley lowers his head, so slowly, nudges Aziraphale’s cheek with his nose. Presses a kiss there, opens his mouth, breathes in and out, in and out, puffs of breath against pale skin. Aziraphale turns into it, catches Crowley’s bottom lip with his teeth, _bites_, licks after, licks into his mouth; it’s all so soft, so sweet; it’s a declaration; it’s a dream. Crowley whimpers when Aziraphale pulls away.

“Let me stay with you,” Aziraphale says, begs. “let’s rest, together, let me stay near you; I want to be near you.”

“Don’t leave,” Crowley mumbles, “you never had to leave.”

“Let me get you out of these,” says Aziraphale, tugging at his shirt sleeve. Crowley obediently lifts his arms, then his hips; lets Aziraphale strip him naked. Watches as Aziraphale strips down to his underclothes, climbs back into bed. Covers them both over with blankets he must’ve collected from around the entire flat. He rests a hand on Crowley’s hip. “Sleep, darling. Let’s sleep.”

And he does.

…

Blinks awake hours later. Aziraphale is asleep, hand resting on Crowley’s stomach, fingers curled. He feels more naked than he did before falling asleep, exposed. Panicked. Takes a deep breath. Steady. Breathe. He covers Aziraphale’s hand with is own. Presses his thumb to the side of Aziraphale’s wrist. Lets the steady beat of his pulse lull him back to sleep.

…

He wakes up alone. Stumbles out of his bedroom, wrapped in a sheet, bare feet cold, into his noticeably tidier flat. Aziraphale pops out from the kitchen, cheerful in yellow rubber gloves and a frilled apron.

“Crowley!” he says. “Look, no miracles!” Then, “I must say, that is a very good look on you.”

“How long has it been?”

“Six days.”

Crowley collapses to his sofa, coils up. “Fuck,” he says.

“Crowley?” He can hear Aziraphale shedding the gloves. Approaching carefully. “Can I sit with you?” 

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale settles into the sofa, pressed up against him. Nudges him carefully until his head is resting in Aziraphale’s lap.

“You can’t fix me, you know,” Crowley says. “You can clean me up, clean around me, but it won’t fix anything. You should know. Sometimes I’m just…. this. Me.”

“I can help, though. Be there for you. I want to.”

For fuck’s sake, angel, Aziraphale, why would you want to?”

“Crowley,” he says, fiercely, “I cannot imagine anything more horrific to me than you being in pain, and alone.”

It’s not easy to hear; it’s not how he wants to be seen. He’s naked in more ways than the obvious. He’s flayed open. He’s behind glass. On display.

“Aziraphale,” he says. Pushes his face into Aziraphale’s stomach. Hides.

Aziraphale lets him. “I know, I know. It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay.”

…

Later, hours later, Aziraphale asks, “Do you want to sleep again? Are you hungry?”

“Sleep,” Crowley says. “Sleep, in a few.”

“Can I open the blinds?” Aziraphale asks, timidly. Crowley knows why. One of many little decisions that will push him this way or that, flood the flat in sunlight or shroud it in darkness. He wishes he could say it was an easy decision, wishes it was a no-brainer. He takes Aziraphale’s hand. Reminds himself that even if he’s brave this time, it doesn’t mean he has to be brave every time. Presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Compiled my tumblr ficlets of the same name, finished it up and posted it here. Title from Leonard Cohen, Teachers.


End file.
